My father died,

he hadn’t planned to,

after an afternoon

tidying the raspberry canes,

with me.

I’d asked. 

He’d said, that,

When you’re dead, 

he thought,

You leave what you were 

in offspring

as these raspberries do;

I’m glad he can’t hear today’s news.

(In response to news that, post Brexit, Britain is farming farming out.)

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